


Flybe Nights

by gingerjay



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Airport AU, Alternate Universe, Banter, Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, travel AU, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerjay/pseuds/gingerjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara's holiday is waylaid by a sudden storm, a delayed flight, and an unexpected friendship with a cranky fellow passenger. Airport/Travel AU. Human Doctor AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flybe Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Gift fic written for my lovely Tumblr friend, @thatexactleaf.

Delayed.

Clara didn't know why she kept walking over and staring at the board; the flight status hadn't changed for hours. Her plane was still delayed and she was still stuck. She'd already texted her friends, told them not to expect her until morning, but she couldn't help holding on to a thread of hope. Maybe the storm would clear. Maybe the plane would board soon. And maybe a tap-dancing unicorn would prance through the concourse on rainbow-colored hooves.

She sighed and turned away from the flight tracker.

The view of the departures lounge hadn't changed, either. Row after row of seats stood empty with only one fellow traveler to keep her company; an older man with intimidating eyebrows and a 'keep your distance' attitude. Well, no worries there. She'd stay as far away from him as she could.

A gust of wind rattled the windows and she turned toward the sound. Then without warning the man slid from his seat, his head disappearing between the rows. Clara gasped at the unexpected sight, her mind running through possibilities as she moved toward him. Was he ill? Had he fainted? Was she going to have to perform mouth-to-mouth on a complete stranger?

She reached the row where he'd been sitting and took a deep breath for courage before peering over the edge of the seats. The man sat on the tiles with his eyes closed, his breathing even and slow. He held his arms and legs outstretched, his legs raised slightly from the floor.

"You okay?" she asked, but even while she spoke she noticed his Crombie coat was folded and set aside and his boots were lined up neatly under a chair. He was probably okay and she'd made a fool of herself over nothing. Wouldn't be the first time.

" _Paripurna navasana_ ," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"I think your speech is garbled," she said. "You're not making any sense."

He didn't seem to be in distress but she reached for her phone out of instinct, fingers poised over the keypad, ready to call for help.

He lowered his legs and sat forward. He looked up at her and Clara noted that along with intimidating eyebrows, he also had a rather glorious head of grey curls and piercing green eyes.

" _Paripurna navasana_ ," he repeated. "It's Sanskrit. The boat pose."

Clara sagged in relief. "You're doing yoga."

"I was trying to."

He untangled long legs and winced as he stood and dug a hand into his lower back.

"We'll all be packed in elbow-to-elbow in a cramped cabin soon enough," he said. "Might as well move around while I can."

Soon enough. That sounded hopeful. Maybe he knew something she didn't. Maybe the situation wasn't as dire as she thought.

"Do you think we're getting out of here tonight?"

"Doubtful," he said, brushing off his coat and draping it over his lap as he sat. "It's still blowing up a gale outside."

Clara stole a quick glance as he stretched an arm across the back of the seats and propped a foot up on his knee. No unsightly pale expanse of skin showed, only cute striped blue socks. Interesting.

"And even if the weather cleared suddenly," he continued, unaware of her scrutiny, "The airline won't find a fresh flight crew until closer to morning."

Clara fell into the seat opposite him, her hopeful mood completely deflated. He was right. They weren't going anywhere until tomorrow.

"Shame we missed the hotel shuttle," she said. "It must have been and gone while I was talking to the baggage handlers."

She still didn't know why they'd refused to release her held luggage. It had been sitting right there.

" _You_ missed the shuttle," he said. "I chose not to take it."

"But why would you-?"

He drew a dark blue rucksack from under his seat and Clara watched, mesmerized, her words forgotten as he removed item after item and arranged it beside himself: slim laptop, travel pillow, empty water bottle, and finally what looked like a giant piece of folded aluminium foil. If he'd pulled out a live rabbit it wouldn't have surprised her.

"You're not seriously thinking of bedding down here for the night?" she said when she found her voice.

He snapped open his laptop, pecking at the keyboard with two fingers before he answered.

"It's this or the hotel," he said. "A hotel filled with disgruntled business travelers shouting down their mobiles, crying babies, hyperactive toddlers, apathetic parents, and a group of shrieking young ladies on a hen's trip."

"Still, I wouldn't say no to a hot shower and a good night's sleep," she said. "Won't be getting that here."

He stopped typing for a moment and stared at her over the top of the screen.

"Yes, well, you also won't have to deal with bed bugs, dirty bed linens, random hairs on everything and a questionable breakfast buffet." He gave a gentle shudder and returned to his work.

"Bed bugs?" Clara laughed at his perturbed expression. "That's rather fastidious for someone dressed like a homeless person."

"If you're referring to my travel attire," he said,. "The Crombie is warm enough to double as a blanket, the hooded jacket is useful for sound and light control and the layered t-shirts wick sweat away from the body and can be rinsed out in a sink and hung to dry."

"Ergh." She wrinkled her nose at the mental image.

"Now who's being fastidious?" he said. "Believe me, if you'd ever been trapped for hours on a plane with a faulty air exchange, you'd be happy to have absorbent clothing. Everything I'm wearing is functional."

As he spoke, his eyes traveled her length from head to foot. She blushed and tried to tug her skirt down with one hand. Okay, maybe she wasn't wearing the most practical clothing but she'd dressed for a party, not an all-night camp out in an airport. But she didn't have to camp out, did she? The only reason she'd approached him in the first place was because she thought he was ill. But no, he was perfectly healthy and absolutely infuriating. She'd take her chances with bed bugs and hairs and crying babies.

She stood and made it almost three steps toward the lifts before he spoke up.

"There won't be another shuttle tonight."

"Then I'll walk."

"You'll walk?" He snorted out an incredulous laugh. "In the dark, against a force eight gale, across a multi-lane road while wearing high heels? I don't think so."

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment while she thought.

"There's a taxi stand outside."

"Yes, there is," he agreed. "But no taxis, not in this weather. Even if there were, you'd pay thirty pounds one way."

She didn't have that much on her but wasn't quite ready to give in yet.

"A bus, then."

"Stopped running at 8 pm."

Each grim pronouncement was spoken in the same even tone as he pecked away at his laptop like an overgrown owl.

"Then I guess I'm stuck here with you," she said.

"You're stuck," he said. "But you're not stuck with me. It's a big, empty airport."

He made an expansive gesture with his arm and Clara stalked away, counting off the rows while she walked. Five rows. That would put enough distance between them, but she'd sit facing him. Single woman alone with a strange man, can't be too careful. She didn't want to end up a splashy cautionary tale in the Daily Mail or anything. Except...

Except he seemed harmless enough. And it wouldn't be a bad thing, having some company if they had to wait it out. He looked up and locked eyes with her. Oh. She'd been staring, then. He'd caught her at it and looked none too happy about it.

Another gust of wind shook the building and she huddled into her seat, chafing her arms. She'd be okay on her own. Maybe a little chilly, but she'd could take care of herself and she'd have a great story to tell her friends later. She'd ignore him, that's all. Even if he collapsed again.

"You're shivering."

His voice startled her and she whirled around. He stood nearby, pack slung over one shoulder.

"I was meditating," she said, pressing her hands together so they wouldn't shake. "I always tremble when I reach a higher plane of consciousness."

"You weren't meditating," he said. "Looked more like brooding to me."

"Fine, then I was brooding," she said. "Both solitary activities." She waved a hand at him. "Now shoo."

"Your dress is lovely," he said, refusing to shoo. "But it won't keep you warm. Didn't you pack a shawl or a cardigan?"

"Of course I did," she said.

"Then why-?"

"It's in my held bags."

"I see."

Only two words from him, but they made her feel like a silly little girl. She knew better, had stood in her bedroom for ages with the jumper in her hands but the weather had been fine and time running short when she'd left her flat and she'd stuffed it in her large case before rushing out the door.

"I have a spare blanket if you'd like to use it," he said.

"Please tell me you're not talking about that crinkly foil thing I saw you pull out of your bag earlier."

"It's a space blanket," he said. "Not a 'foil thing.'"

"Space blanket, then," she said. "I don't care what you call it, I'm not going to sit here wrapped up like a Christmas turkey. I'd rather freeze to death."

The tip of her nose was growing cold and she tried to sniffle discreetly. Freezing to death was becoming a real possibility.

He sighed and ran one hand through his hair, then dumped his pack on the seat next to her. He shrugged out of his Crombie and held it out to her, draped across one arm.

Clara shook her head. "I don't want to take your coat."

"Please," he said. "You're shivering and your nose is running and if you catch cold from sitting in a drafty terminal, I'll never forgive myself."

Oh, she liked the way he said "catch cold." Nice Scottish edge to his voice. She hesitated.

"Won't you be chilly, though?"

"I'm wearing layers," he said. "And I always have my foil thing if I need it."

Clara nodded and stood up. He motioned for her to turn around and helped her into the coat, snugging it around her shoulders. It hung on her, of course, the sleeves reaching well past her fingertips, but it was a nice heavy weight and still warm from his body. She felt an odd sense of security wrapped up in it.

"Thank you."

"There's a clean handkerchief in one pocket if you need it," he said. "I'd rather you didn't use the sleeves."

He tilted his head and smiled at her then, a genuine smile that relaxed the lines on his face and softened his eyes. Clara couldn't help but smile back.

She sat down again, snuggling into the coat, her fingers stroking the red satin lining. He stretched out beside her, crossed his legs at the ankle and rested his clasped hands against his stomach. The silence between them was comfortable and as it stretched out, her eyelids fluttered shut.

"You shouldn't actually wrap turkey in foil," he said.

Clara blinked and shook her head. She couldn't tell if she'd dreamed his poultry non-sequitur or not.

"We were talking about turkey a few minutes ago," he said in response to her confused look.

"Were we?"

"Yes. And you shouldn't wrap it in foil."

Clara leaned her head against the back of the seat and thought for a moment. "Of course you're supposed to wrap turkey after you roast it," she said. "It keeps the juices in and makes the meat moist."

"Also makes the skin all soggy when you want it crisp. Or so i've heard. I've not roasted many turkeys in my life."

Clara let her head fall to one side and gave him an incredulous look.

"We're not seriously discussing the merits of meat preparation and proper food coverings, are we?"

"What would you suggest we talk about? We've a lot of time to kill."

"Well, I am wearing your clothing, perhaps we could start with names." She pushed one sleeve back and extended her hand. "I'm Clara. Clara Oswald."

"John Smith," he said. "Dr. John Smith if we're being formal."

Clara gave a little shiver as his large hand covered hers. Oh, he had lovely hands. Very soft with long tapering fingers. Maybe he was a surgeon. She trailed her fingertips along his palm and then froze when she realized what she was doing. She dragged her attention back to his face, surprised to see he was blushing.

"Are we being formal, Doctor?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "John is fine."

His manner turned brisk and before Clara could say anything more, he'd removed his hand from hers and retrieved his laptop, screen canted low and turned away so she couldn't sneak a look.

"So what are you reading?" she asked. "Must be very interesting."

" _The Cowboy and the Mail Order Bride_ ," he said. "I enjoy a good period romance."

"I can tell you how it ends," she said. "Despite their differences, the cowboy and his bride fall madly in love and live happily ever after."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, now you've spoiled it for me."

She leaned a little closer, just catching the title _Abelian Chiral Gauge Theories on the Lattice with Exact Gauge Invariance_ before he lowered the screen.

"A little light reading, huh?" she said.

"You have your phone," he said. "Why don't you play Crush the Birds or some other mind-numbing distraction and let me work?" He groaned and rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he said. "Bit of a headache."

He squinted as he patted down the pockets of his hoodie and did a search of his bag.

"Think I left my specs in your coat," he said. "I mean, my coat. Could you take a look?"

"You wear glasses?"

"Why do you sound so shocked? Lots of people wear them. It's not like it's a wooden leg or something." He crossed his arms across his chest, uncomfortable with the subject. "I'm old."

"I wasn't judging you," she said as she stuck her hand deep into the right-side pocket. Nothing in there but a tiny notebook and a pen, probably filled with boring things like grocery lists and phone numbers. In the opposite pocket was the clean handkerchief he'd mentioned, but no glasses.

"Check the inside pocket," he said.

She barely had the glasses out before he'd plucked them from her fingers and turned away to put them on. She touched him on the shoulder.

"Can I see?"

He turned back toward her and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger. It was a self-conscious gesture and he didn't look at her while she studied him for a long moment. His hair was a very becoming shade of silver but in the light, Clara saw darker strands threaded throughout. And the specs fit him well, the heavy half-frames softening the angles of his face and highlighting his striking eyes.

"They're very flattering," she said.

He raised one shoulder in an impatient shrug. "I need them to see," he said. "They're not a fashion accessory."

He flipped open his laptop again and bent his head over the keyboard.

"And you're not old," she said.

He huffed, but Clara thought she saw a brief, pleased expression cross his face.

Her stomach growled, breaking the mood, and she pressed a hand to her midsection to try to silence it.

"Hungry?" he asked, looking over at her.

"I suppose I am," she said. She'd not realized it before now. "I didn't eat much earlier today. I was planning to go out tonight."

"Explains the dress and the impractical shoes."

"Yes, thank you, I believe you've mentioned that."

Her stomach growled again and she pulled her bag to her lap to rummage through it.

He nodded approvingly. "Always a good idea to keep a little something in your hand luggage to nibble on."

"Oh, I agree," she said, pulling out her boarding pass and travel wallet. "Never know when you'll need it." Her phone joined the pass and wallet. "Must be in here somewhere." She added a clear zippered pouch full of toiletries to the pile in her lap.

"That's it?" he asked after she'd emptied her bag. "You have a hair brush and moisturizer but no food or water? At least you'll look attractive while you're starving to death."

"I'm not going to starve to death in one night," she said. "There's always the cafe. Or the duty-free."

"Both closed by now," he said.

"Maybe if I look cute enough I can talk a more well-prepared traveller out of his food."

She stuffed everything back, squared her shoulders and rose to her feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Stretch my legs a little."

"You're going to check if the shops are open," he said. "You don't believe me."

"Stretching my legs," she called back. "Maybe a little yoga."

She walked off as steadily as she could in her heels. Why had she chosen slingbacks, why not something sensible like kitten heels or Crocs? Because she didn't think she'd have to make it very far, that's why. Small airport meant small terminal meant not that much distance between gates. And if her evening had gone to plan, it would have been a short hop to meet her friends then off to a lovely dinner where her footwear would have been entirely appropriate..

She swore softly as she reached the food court. He'd been right of course, both the cafe and the duty-free were locked up tight. She glanced over her shoulder in his direction. He was making a show of not looking at her and Clara tossed her head, trying for an air of nonchalance. She was a successful young businesswoman who could take care of herself. Maybe there was a vending machine nearby; a bag of crisps would do.

She whirled too quickly and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She took one stumbling step backwards, felt her ankle turn inward and made a noise of surprise as she sat down hard. Her bottom hurt and her ankle throbbed and she tore off the offending shoe ready to throw it when she heard running footsteps and him calling her name.

"I know I should have worn different shoes and packed more carefully," she said as he crouched near her. "But I haven't visited my girlfriends for months and somehow the planets aligned and our schedules all cleared at the same time and it was our last chance to meet up before Steph has her baby and Janice moves to the States and…"

She trailed off, staring dumbly at the shoe still clutched in her hand.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you all this," she said. "But If you just came over to gloat or act smug, save your breath. I am so not in the mood for it."

He'd remained silent through the deluge of words, his mouth hanging open slightly. Clara regretted snapping at him. None of this was his fault.

"I only wanted to see if you were hurt," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Well, thank you."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Hurt."

"I don't know."

He grasped her ankle, his hands strong and steady while he flexed her foot back and forth, watching her face for signs of discomfort.

"I think you just twisted it," he said. "Let's try and get you up."

He offered a hand to her and hauled her to her feet. She took one tentative step and sucked in a breath through her teeth when pain lanced through her ankle. He positioned himself next to her, encircling her waist with one arm. She leaned on him and took a few hobbling steps, wincing every time her foot contacted the floor.

"Think you can you make it back to our seats?" he asked.

She nodded. Of course she'd make it. She'd already ruined her entire trip before it even started and she refused let this very patient man carry her around like a helpless child after she'd thrown such a strop. Distraction, that's what she needed. Think about something else.

She focused her attention on a huge travel poster hanging near their row of seats, all tanned legs and brightly-manicured toes set against a backdrop of a white beach and bright blue water.

"Barbados," she said, gasping slightly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Barbados," she repeated, tilting her head to indicate the poster.

He concentrated on her careful progress instead, giving the poster only a cursory glance as they passed.

"What's in Barbados?"

"Nothing is _in_ Barbados, it's Barbados," she said. "Sunshine, palm trees, warm breezes. I'd like to be lying in a hammock right now, drink in hand, without a care."

"But isn't it the wet season right now?"

"How should I know?" she said. "It was just a thought." Two more rows, she could make it. "Don't you ever take off and go somewhere for no good reason, for the sake of adventure?"

"Not lately," he said. He was beginning to puff a little from the effort of holding her up. "I've traveled extensively for my work. It stopped being exciting about ten years ago."

She hopped the final few steps and fell into the nearest seat, positioning herself sideways and stretching her injured leg out. Maybe she should have asked for a stop at the toilets first. As it was, she didn't feel like moving for a while.

"You should probably ice your ankle," he said, tucking his own travel pillow under her foot. "And wrap it to keep the swelling down, but…"

"Are you telling me you don't have a full medical kit handy? Surgical instruments in case someone needs an emergency appendectomy?"

"Security confiscated them," he said. "Try not to have a medical crisis if you can help it."

He took a square packet from the side pocket of his bag and flipped it to her. Clara made a clumsy grab at it, fumbling it to her lap.

"A Flapjack bar?" she said, turning it over to read the label.

"If you're still hungry."

"I'm starving." She pulled the foil wrapper down and took a huge bite. "Thank you."

He watched her while she ate, his head on one side. He said nothing, never taking his eyes from her.

"What?" she asked. "Is anything wrong?"

"You're wearing my coat, you're enjoying one of my snacks," he said. "What's next, Clara Oswald? My hand in marriage?"

She smiled. "You'll have to buy me a drink first."

* * *

This was hell, no other word for it. Her own personal hell. She'd inhaled a terrible cup of coffee and a dodgy cheese danish before boarding and what had been mild discomfort had now progressed to a raging nausea. It didn't help that she was trapped next to a beefy and unshowered man who seemed to delight in sucking on his teeth and belching every few minutes. She groaned and wriggled in her seat, trying to find a position where the seatbelt didn't press against her midsection. If she could hang on until they reached cruising altitude, she could take a walk, clear her head and try to find John.

She hadn't seen him since the boarding announcement. One minute they'd been asleep and the next they were stumbling around, packing their bags and looking for her missing shoe. And after the hotel shuttle arrived, they'd been caught up in the crowd and swept away from each other. She'd barely had time to return his coat and wave goodbye.

The plane began to level out and Clara felt her stomach contents slosh dangerously, a cold sweat prickling on her back. No, no, no. She clenched her teeth together and squeezed her eyes shut. She would not be sick, not on a crowded flight and definitely not in front of this boorish man. She was only half-aware of activity around her, the noise of passengers rising and moving about. but found it hard to concentrate on anything except not throwing up.

"Mind if I trade seats with you?"

The panic rising in Clara's chest calmed. He'd found her, thank god. She'd know that accent and gentle tone of voice anywhere.

Her seatmate made unhappy noises about bulkheads and moving his hand luggage and not enough leg room and she was starting to lose hope when John spoke again.

"I understand it's an inconvenience, but between you and me, I saw her in the lounge earlier and I think perhaps…"

Clara opened one eye and saw John make an enthusiastic tippling motion with one hand while giving the other man a knowing wink.

"She's positively green, don't you think?" he said. "Let's hope there are enough sick bags in the pocket for her, poor girl. Maybe the other passengers will lend you some if she needs them."

Her seatmate turned to Clara, eyes wide with horror. She gave him a watery smile and gulped.

"Thank you, you're very kind," John said, as the man tore his luggage from the overhead compartment and scrambled past him. "It's D19, window seat a few rows back."

John gave a little wave of his fingers and then slid into the seat next to Clara. She released her grip on the armrests, her shoulders loosening.

"You look terrible," he said.

""Why did you tell him I'd been drinking?"

"Because if anyone thought you were infectious, we'd have complete pandemonium on our hands," he said. "And he's an idiot, you don't care about his opinion. Now, shh."

"D'you think I could be infectious?" she asked, wiping at the sweat beaded on her upper lip. "I was feeling fine earlier. And it came on so suddenly, maybe-."

"You're not infectious," he said. "It's a combination of stress, lack of sleep and poor quality coffee from the airport cafe."

He flipped her hands palm up, fingers supporting her arms, his thumbs digging into her wrists. She winced as she felt the tendons shift under the pressure.

"Ow, that _hurts_ ," she said. "What are you doing?"

"Stimulating a pressure point," he said. "It's supposed to be uncomfortable. But if I do it correctly, it should settle your stomach."

Her nose was inches from the top of his head as he bent over her hands and she wanted to rest her cheek against all those curls. His hair was probably very soft. It looked soft.

"You're a good doctor," she said. "Excellent bedside manner."

"I'm not-" He looked up at her, a sheepish expression on his face. "I'm not that kind of doctor."

"Oh. Then-?"

"I have a Ph.D in theoretical physics," he said.

"A professor."

"Research."

A deep crease appeared between his eyebrows and he averted his eyes from hers. Either he didn't want to talk about it or something else was distracting him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now. The nausea was easing its grip on her throat and there was little danger of being sick now; John had made sure of that. She sighed and sagged back into her seat.

"Feeling better?"

"A little better," she said. "Not going to embarrass myself at least."

He placed her hands gently back into her lap and pulled a small plastic case from his bag. She watched with a bemused smile while he fastened two cloth straps around her wrists.

"Travel sickness bands," he said before she could ask. "Since I can't follow you around all day."

"You think of everything."

He propped an elbow on their shared armrest and massaged his forehead. Clara frowned when she noticed his hands shaking. Maybe she shouldn't have pressed that cortado on him earlier but the poor man had looked like he needed all the caffeine he could ingest. But the coffee obviously hadn't helped. Fatigue dragged at his face and he seemed weary, almost unwell.

"Why'd you come looking for me, John?" she asked. "I thought you'd be happy to see the back of me after last night."

He glanced over and gave her a weak smile.

"Wanted to keep an eye on you," he said. "Anything could happen. You could fall headfirst out of the emergency door or be run over by a beverage cart, you never know."

Clara laughed. "I'm sorry I've been such a nuisance," she said. "I'm usually much better at this."

On an impulse, she slipped her hand into his and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Thank you for taking care of me."

He stared at their entwined fingers and cleared his throat.

"Clara," he said. "You're holding my hand."

"Yep, knew that," she said. "I missed your hands. They're very nice hands, by the way."

She curled in closer to him. He was warm and solid and and he smelled like citrus and basil and something else she couldn't quite place, but it was a clean smell, and not like he'd been sleeping rough in an airport overnight.

"Clara." Her name again, spoken with an edge of panic in his voice. "You're sniffing me."

"Yes, I am." She giggled, buried her face into the woolen material of his coat and gave a long, enthusiastic snuffle. "You smell lovely."

"Nice of you to say so, but I'm not really in the habit of being physically affectionate with my seatmates," he said. "Perhaps you could move back now?"

"Nope," she said. "And I'm not your seatmate, I'm your friend. Your cuddly, affectionate friend. Deal with it."

He tensed for a moment and Clara wondered if she'd pushed him too far. Then she heard a soft laugh in response and felt the weight of his head against hers.

"My cuddly, affectionate, _annoying_ friend," he said, nuzzling his nose into her hair. "Thank you for keeping me company."


End file.
